WRITE TO CRY

Perhaps now she can quit thrashing about and get some sleep. She wrote a story about me, you see, about a me I wish I weren't. It's her first story so I don't blame her. But I can't help wishing it were about the me of before, about the me she first met, the me who made her laugh — not the me who makes her cry, the one she lies awake thinking about.

But I wasn't that special then, not like now and not to her. She's not one of my four daughters. She's not my ex-wife. She's not one of my five or perhaps eight lovers. She's just a friend and we hadn't known each other that long. Her and her husband moved next door to me about six years ago. I lived in a mobile home and all that separated my mobile from theirs was my big old pickup. That's how close we were. So you see, there would have been no reason (raison d'être she would have said), to write a story about me back then.

Yet the moment we met, we got along swell. She was so much younger with that French accent and me with remnants of Boston.

"You have a hint of Jack Kennedy when you speak Bill. What a charmer he was, a lady's man, just like you." she said.

We had nothing in common except for our stories. She told me all about Quebec and that weird sport 'Curling' and I recounted my days as a bar owner in Boston and then here in Florida as well as my trips to Biloxi. Gawd how I miss gambling. We laughed a lot and since I can't cook, she'd bring over dishes like chilli, shepherd's pie or something she called 'poutine'. "I always make too much," she said. But so you don't misunderstand, her husband and I got along real well, a fine fellow, "He's cut from the same cloth as you, Bill — a true gentleman."

A year after I'd gone, leaving my mobile and Pick up behind, she started writing: poetry, bits and pieces and then — this story. I think it was my truck that did it, sitting there, silent, a useless old thing. She'd get up around five in morning, the time I'd normally head out toMcDonald's, and she'd peek outside, think or dream she'd heard my Ford fire up, and remember. She couldn't get back to sleep — I'd refuse to fade away. So one day, she sat herself down and wrote this, her first story 'and your name is. . . "

***

"Bill, Bill, my name is Bill. . ." the chant skips in and out of his thoughts as the doors gape open and he awakens in a space unlike any he's ever seen. Strange metal carriages are parked, hundreds of them and, as he watches, one of them is removed by a white haired creature who reminds him of his mother. Perhaps it is his mother. "Mom," he hazards. But the woman is swallowed up by a second pair of doors that open like magic. Perhaps she recited some mystical words like "open sesame", a rhyme he suddenly recalls from the past. Before he has a chance to utter the words, he's already forgotten them and the doors yawn open to let him in.

What a bright, colourful place, he thinks as he makes for the first row to his right. All exposed so prettily: the green soft stuff, green harder stuff, round, red and orange stuff, a purple thing, not quite round or long and bumpy, deformed stuff. He picks one up, sniffs and puts it back. He vaguely remembers seeing these but the picture dims and fades. He ambles on peering, inspecting, stopping, poking, sniffing and repeating, "Bill, Bill, my name is Bill."

A buxom young woman with swinging brown hair and rollicking hips passes him with a riot of stuff filling one of the wheeled carriages. He studies her, follows until she stands by a counter filled with pale chunks he knows he likes. She deposits a few in her carriage and moves on. He examines the chunks, picks one and crams it in his pocket. 

He spies a young man who looks like his neighbour and thinks: He plays pickup baseball with me. "Hey," he calls, "hey you. . ." The young man turns, surprised, points to himself : "Me? Yes, can I help you?"

"Bill, Bill, my name is Bill."

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know you," he says, pivots and hurries off."

Bill plods on until he sees row upon row of cakes, pies, cookies; all firmly packaged and waiting. With gleaming eyes, he picks a small box, removes the cardboard casing, opens it and begins to chump on the pie with closed eyes, the guck spreading across his mouth and staining his teeth a deep purple. Licking his fingers, then wiping them on his pants, he continues to appraise these goodies. A small chocolate cake with pink and white icing enclosed in clear plastic, captures his eye. Mouth watering, he picks it up. With mounting frustration, he struggles to pry it open. Finally, with a mighty wrench, he succeeds, only to have the cake splatter to the floor. Somewhat frightened, he abandons it and hastens further into the hall of plenty.

The row of canned goods doesn't tempt him. But the pie has made him thirsty.  He's delighted to see little soldiers of juice cartons lined up with other drinkables, small to large in a rainbow of colours. He settles on a luminous red beverage. With little effort, he unscrews the cap, takes a gulp and spews it out in revulsion. It leaves some unfortunate spots on his blue shirt. He ignores this as he sets the offending bottle on the floor and hunts for something more palatable. 

He spots the yellowish orange bottle and dimly remembers it as a tasty beverage. His first tentative sip confirms it. He's on his third gulp when a bulky chap approaches him, smiling.

"Sir, would you come with me" he says, taking hold of Bill's arm.

"Bill, Bill, my name is Bill."

"Yes, we know you're Bill. Some people have been frantic with worry looking for you. They're waiting in my office. Why don't you bring that drink with you."

"Ok, but my name is Bill, Bill — Bill is my name," he repeats as he is gently led away.

***

There it's done. Bill will never read it and he probably wouldn't like it if he could. But in some way it makes me feel better. But that's not why I wrote it.

I hate to admit it but it was all about fear. Fear for myself, fear for others close to me, fear of how it can diminish a person like Bill, obliterate the qualities, the memories, the singularity that made him who he is. But even if he doesn't remember, even while I mourn, in essence he's still Bill.

"You still matter," I tell him. "You're still my friend named Bill."

And there he is, nodding, a crooked little grin resonating in his eyes, before his image fades away.

END